


Weaving In

by Ceares



Series: Three On A Couch [5]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Character of Color, F/M, Knitting, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 03:05:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceares/pseuds/Ceares
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Word of God has it that there are only three things Eliot Spencer could never master. When I saw that, the story basically wrote itself, conveniently filling the knitting/sewing square.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weaving In

There are only three things that Eliot hasn’t been able to master. That damn Pokemon game his nephew loves. Lingala, which is fine except for that one time in the _redacted_ with the team from _redacted_ and the guy who _redacted_ , and knitting, which made no sense. He could slice an onion thin enough to see through, he was _good_ with his hands, but wrap yarn around thin sticks and somehow he couldn’t make it work.

He’d snapped the first set of bamboo needles he’d bought -- well, second, since the first set were buried in the neck of a minor South American warlord. The knitting was a great cover, no metal to set off the detectors and nothing to deal with other than few insulting smirks aimed at his pink shirt and matching knitting bag. Homophobia was a great distractor. Eliot was always practical and since he’d had the kit, he figured why not. After he couldn’t hack the wooden needles, he figured he’d go metal. Two hours later, he had a tangled mess of yarn where it had knotted coming out of the skein and a lop-sided swatch with stitches so loose they kept slipping off the needles and stitches so tight, he could barely transfer them from one needle to another.

But that was years ago and with the baby coming soon, Leverage inc was on hiatus. Eliot couldn’t hit anything and he’d cooked so much that everybody on the team looked like they were sporting the ‘freshman fifteen’. He had to do _something_ , and he’d remembered the yarn and needles that had come along for the move, when they’d finally argued through where they were gonna live.

He was concentrating so hard he didn’t hear Hardison until a couple of seconds before he walked in, not enough time to put away what he was working on. Hardison was in his space almost instantly, reaching for Eliot’s yarn. He snatched it out of harm’s way, slapping at Hardison’s grabby hand.

“Stop it!”

“What the hell are you doing man? Cause it sure ain’t knitting.”

Eliot glared into Hardison’s smirk, even though it was basically useless at this point. He hadn’t intimidated his boy in years.

“I killed three men with a pair of knitting needles.” 

“Yeah, but they weren’t your baby-daddy.” Hardison leaned and kissed him, and when he moved away, he had the needles and yarn in his hands.

“Damn it, Hardison!” Eliot hadn’t even felt the lift. Admittedly, he was pleasantly distracted but familyhood was making him soft, cause Hardison still sucked at lifts.

Hardison started to gently unwind the mess Eliot had made.

“How do you know even know about knitting?”

Hardison shrugged, eyes on the yarn he was rewrapping into a ball. “Nana. She could knit anything, sweaters, hats, scarves, socks, gloves. She kept us warm all winter long. She used to say it calmed that last nerve we were getting on. She taught any of us kids who were willing to learn.”

He took the needles and started to cast on. “Nana’s favorite saying was ‘God bless the child that’s got his own.” Hardison’s long fingers moved smoothly and Eliot found himself almost hypnotized by the rhythmic clack of the needles against each other. He held up the piece and nodded before reaching out and wrapping Eliot’s fingers around the needles again. His own fingers guided Eliot’s into a smooth motion.

“You’re making me a scarf by the way.”

Eliot’s protest was smothered under Hardison’s warm mouth, and he leaned in, needles and yarn forgotten as he concentrated on something that was always exactly right.


End file.
